


All These Years

by Lyndsaybones



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-09-12 09:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 13,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16870621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyndsaybones/pseuds/Lyndsaybones
Summary: Faced with an impossible decision, Scully begs Mulder to take William with him when he goes on the run. In the time they spend apart, their lives are changed dramatically. TW: for implied major character death and non-con situations. Spoilers thru season 8.





	1. Chapter 1

2011, Dallas, Texas

Dr. Sarah Sullivan is efficient as she goes about suturing the body, pulling the chest back together. She’s spent a good chunk of her day picking Albert Travis, age 45, apart piece by piece. He’s only a little bit older than she. She’s always been conscious of her health, but these years she’s spent in the pathology department of Mt. Hope Hospital have put a finer point on the importance of self-care. In the case of Mr. Travis, the grim reaper came by way of heart disease. She briefly flashes on the round, ruddy face of her father.

She’s sent all the necessary samples to the gross room and is more than ready to call the cause of death and the day. The fluorescent lighting of the morgue is unusually irritating today. She wonders if she can squeeze in a quick run through the park to shake off the bothersome headache that has hung with her like a low fog since she woke that morning.

“Katie,” she calls gently to her PA. “Mr. Travis is ready to go back into cold storage.”

Katie looks up from her cell phone and nods. She’s on the youthful side of her forties, not quite staring down the barrel of middle age. Her curly brown hair is pinned back into a half ponytail and her plastic framed glasses slide precariously to the end of her nose. In the 10 years that they’ve worked together, she’s been not only a fantastic physician’s assistant, but a good friend.

“No problem. Do you want me to call the family?” she asks as she sets about her task.

“No that’s okay. I’ll speak to them,” she says as she peels off her gloves.

“You okay, Doc? You look a little peaked,” Katie asks, furrowing her brow.

“I’m just a little tired,” she says softly.

That’s not entirely true. The headache that has been sitting with her most of the day is now bordering on excruciating. She rolls her neck and tugs the elastic from her copper hair. Her ears begin to ring to the point of drowning out every other sound. She winces as she draws her fingers to her temples.

She doesn’t realize she’s falling until it’s too late and by then she doesn’t realize anything. Katie watches in horror as her mentor puddles down with a distinct crack as her head comes in contact with the tile floor.

“Sarah?!” she cries out as she drops to her side.

Dr. Sullivan’s eyes remain screwed shut in an expression of affliction. She breathes out one word, a name: “William.”

2006, Farr’s Corner, VA

“Did I kill my mom?” he asks.

He is five years old, with wild dark chocolate hair that sticks up in the back no matter how much he slicks it down. It’s okay, though. He likes to wear baseball hats most of the time anyway. He sees her in the boy’s smile, the shape and color of his eyes, the lift of his brow when he is thinking hard.

He settles himself, taking a deep, shaking breath.

“Augie Dombrowski said that my mom died when I was born so that means I killed her.”

“Augie Dombrowski? Is he a real person or Mikey person?” his father asks, stalling.

“Real! He’s in my class and he lost a tooth already!” There are tears in his eyes. He sees her when the boy cries, too.

“She died because sometimes people die. Sometimes they get old or sick or have a bad accident. You didn’t kill your mother. You didn’t kill her, Michael. You hear me?” he asks, placing his palms on the boys shoulders.

“Then why did she die?” he asks, voice choked and teary.

“She didn’t die when you were born. She saw you and held you and named you, son. She loved you more than anything. She got sick, very sick and that’s why she died.”

He nods, sniffing and sobbing and climbs into his father’s lap.

“I have a picture of her, just one. Would you like to see it?” he asks.

The boy looks up, wide eyed and nods.

He settles him in his chair and goes to retrieve the wallet sized shot from its hiding place in the bedroom, pressed between the pages of her copy of Moby Dick. She is frozen in time, a shy smile and a hand resting on the swell of her belly. He remembers her protests as he raised the camera. Mulder, no. I’m huge. I look terrible. It broke his heart a little to hear her say that. You look like a miracle, Scully. She softened at that and let him take the picture. 

He holds it so that Michael can see. He peers curiously, tilts his head to one side.

“She was pretty,” he remarks.

“She was,” he agrees.

2001, Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

“Please, you have to,” she whispers.

Their son is nearly a week old, awake for longer and longer stretches, taking in the world around him with wide open eyes and his mouth pursed in a little oh shape. But not now. He is fast asleep, clutched to Scully’s chest like a treasure.

“And just leave you here,” he says, anger roiling just below the surface.

“You have to,” she says again. “They’ll come for him.”

“Then let’s go, all of us. We can go right now. I have papers, identities, everything we need,” he says.

“How did they find us in the first place?” she asks. “No one should have been able to find us out there. We ran as far and as fast as we could and they still found us. It’s the chip,” she says, ghosting a hand over the back of her neck. “It has to be.”

“I can’t live without you, Scully,” he says, his voice wobbling more than he intended.

“If you have him,” she says, looking down at the baby. “You have me.”

“So, what then? I just take off with him and never see you again? Is that it?”

“Yes,” she says, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“And you can do that? Just let him go?” he asks.

“He’s all I ever wanted. I’d do anything for him. I’d die for him,” she says.

“We were supposed to do this together,” he says, like the edge of a blade.

“We were supposed to do a lot of things,” she says her voice barely above a whisper. She’s been living in a state of mourning since the day he disappeared and she realizes, that it is a state she will never leave. “But he is all that matters, I need you to take him and run.”

2006, Farr’s Corner, VA

Michael settles down and eventually asks if he can go outside to play. He stares at the picture a long time before he can put it away again. But the moment he does, he looks up the Dombrowski’s number.

“Mrs. Dombrowski? This is Mikey Smith’s father. I need a word with you,” he says, just barely holding back his seething anger for little Augie, whom he imagines is some pug-faced little heathen. 

He unloads the story, of the distress caused.

“Oh my god, Mr. Smith I am so sorry. I’ll set him straight. I’m so embarrassed. I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through.”

“It’s just Steve,” he says. “It’s…it’s okay. It’s just a tough conversation with Mikey, you know?”

“I will address this with August, I promise you. Oh you’ve got to let me make this up to you somehow. How about dinner?” she asks. “My oldest can watch the kids and you can have a proper grown up meal. How bout it?”

“Oh,” he says, a little off guard. “Uh no, Mrs. Dombrowski, that’s not necessary.”

“It’s Lucy, and I insist,” she says.

He stammers a moment. He hasn’t ever left Michael with a babysitter. Not once. The idea of wine and food that didn’t come in the form of a breaded nugget did sound pretty appealing.

“Uh, hell, why not?” he says with a shrug.


	2. Part 2

2001, Georgetown, Washington, DC

She comes awake with a start, jolting from sleep with a gasp. It takes her a moment to acclimate, to realize that she cannot move. Her heart begins to pound and her breathing quickens.

“Where is he?” a voice, female, smooth and warm like whiskey.

There is only one “he.” Gone three months now. Her milk dried up ages ago it seems, but at the mere thought of him, her breasts ache and clench. She closes her eyes and concentrates, concentrates on making even the slightest of moves. But there’s nothing. If she could just get to her gun…

“Where’s the baby?” the voice asks from some dark corner of her bedroom.

“He’s gone,” she gasps.

“Yes, that’s what you’d like everyone to think, isn’t it? And Mulder? Where is he?”

“He blames me for what happened to William. He left,” she whispers.

She squeezes her eyes shut, making no effort to fight back tears.

When she opens them again, she’s no longer in her own room, but somewhere else.

White, all white.

Blinding.

There is noise, like static, but more, it is deafening.

She’s freezing to the point of pain, unending cold shock like ice water submersion.

She wants to cry, wants to scream, wants whatever this is to end. But she is frozen in place, like suspended animation, arms splayed out like a crucifixion, legs hoisted up and apart. Her mind is a raging, trembling, howling thing as her anesthetized body is poked and prodded, _invaded_.

The pain rises, reaches a fever pitch and then, nothing.

She is awake and in her own bed. There is light streaming in between the blinds. She sits up, relieved to have full control of her body. She’s in her pajamas from the night before and the terror, the images and feelings that played before her drift and sway, like paint coming away from a brush under water. The memory…or dream? dilutes and she struggles to orient herself. Her phone rings on the nightstand and she is slow to answer.

“Hello?”

“Oh Dana, thank God!” her mother says, her voice wobbly with tears. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days! Where have you been?”

“I…I was…nowhere…I’ve been here,” she says.

“You have to answer your phone, Dana. I was so worried about you. I’m about to board a plane back to Washington to file a missing persons report!” she says, anger seething just beneath the relief.

“I’m sorry mom. I don’t know what to say,” she murmurs, confused.

“I never should have left,” Maggie says, more to herself than her daughter. “With the state you’ve been in, I never should have left.”

She’s trying to remember…anything really. She vaguely recalls telling Maggie that she just couldn’t stomach the trip to meet Bill and Tara’s new baby daughter, but that she should go and enjoy herself. But that was just…she just dropped her off at the airport the yesterday. Hadn’t she?

“Mom, how long have you been gone?” she asks.

“Oh my God, I’m coming back. I’ll be there before 5. Don’t go anywhere, Dana. Don’t do _anything_ , please,” she begs.

“I’m…I’m just…how long, mom? How long?” panic rising.

“Three days, Dana,” she says with a sob. “Oh darling, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left you there alone after all you’ve been through. I’m coming, okay?”

 

2001, Rural Virginia

He is groggy and sleep deprived. William has been a fitful sleeper so far in his young life. _Michael_ , he reminds himself. You have to call him Michael now.

People fall all over themselves to help him, he’s noticed that. They size him up, see he is out in the world alone with a baby and immediately deem him incompetent. Little old ladies who haven’t borne children in 60 years advise him about diapers in the grocery store, tsk him for not having socks on the boy even though it is a balmy 85 degrees outside. Women moon over them both, holding doors for him, offering their assistance at every turn. Other men, they shake their heads, “better you than me, buddy…she’s really got ya whipped, huh?”

He wears a wedding band because he wants people to assume that there is a mother, a wife, somewhere, waiting for them to come home. But it’s also because he knows, knows in his bones, that Dana Scully is his last love.

Their temporary home, a rented trailer outside Bristol, Virginia, is quiet, save for the current sound of William–Michael’s howling.

“Mikey, buddy,” he sighs as he shuffles, half asleep into the boy’s makeshift room. The baby is in a collapsible playpen with a cheap plastic mobile hanging over it. It’s not until his eyes have adjusted in the dark that he can see that the mobile is spinning, turning at a wild and frightening speed. He is paralyzed for a moment, until the baby’s wails become higher, more frantic. He scoops him from the floor of the playpen, pulling him close to his chest. Michael quiets almost instantly and the frenetic energy from mobile slows and eventually stops. He looks down at the sniffling infant with equal parts dismay and amazement.

The next day, he does the thing he swore he wouldn’t do. He contacts Scully.

Knowing that her phone lines are likely monitored, he opts for a more back-channel approach. The Gunmen, ages ago, had set up encrypted email accounts for Mulder and Scully both. He has no idea how often she accesses hers if at all, but he has to take a chance and tell her what he’s seen.

“I know we promised not to attempt contact, or if you’ll even read this, but there is something I need you to know. I think he has some kind of telekinetic powers. He can move things- I saw it myself. God, I miss you so much. He looks more like you everyday. I swear, he’s safe. I’m keeping him safe, but he needs you. I’m going to find a way to come back for you.”

Days go by and she does not respond. He writes more, sending his thoughts and hopes and fears out into the void. He writes her love letters, tells her every new thing the baby is doing, tells her about the joy that burrowed into his heart when he realized he was in love with her. He feels less alone, talking to her and simultaneously, not talking to her.

After two months of endless words the response comes:

“Stop. You have to stop. You’re putting him in danger. You’re putting me in danger. Please stop.”

Ten minutes later, another email follows:

“I love you both so much. Tell him how much I love him.”


	3. Part 3

2001 Georgetown, Washington DC

She is reclining in bed, feet propped up on a squished pillow. Her shirt, a plain heathered grey, one out of his closet, is rolled up to expose the shiny, stretched skin of her pregnant belly. She is guiding his hand along the underside of the swell.

“That’s his shoulder,” she says, pressing his fingers left of center, right above the elastic band of her pajama pants.

“How can you tell?” he asks, genuinely perplexed.

“He was breech until right before y-” she stops, swallows hard and starts again. Before you came back from the dead, he knows, is the rest of the sentence. Everything is before and after.

“He was breech until a few weeks ago. My doctor’s been closely monitoring his position because I really don’t want a c-section,” she says, with false levity, her voice high and strained.

“I don’t know how you…” he trails off. “When you were gone, I was out of my head. I don’t know how you got through it.”

“I didn’t,” she says, simply. “I was still…I was grieving, I was reckless. Even with you back, I don’t know that I’ll ever fully heal from that.”

He sits up a little, tucks a fallen lock of hair behind her ear. “Tell me.”

“I saw you,” she says. “Before we found you out there, I saw you. And even before that, I heard you, dreamt about you, about the things they were doing to you.”

“That’s not the first time something like that has happened, is it?” he asks, interest piqued in a way she hasn’t seen in a while.

“No, it’s not,” she concedes.

“Scully, I know it’s not your inclination, but have you ever entertained the notion that you might be just a little psychic?” he asks, a playful smile dancing on his lips.

“When I was little, like four or five, I ran to my mom and told her that Nana was at the door, because I’d just seen her out in the front yard. Mind you, this was when we were in San Diego and my Nana lived in Rhode Island. Of course, no one was there when my mom checked the door.”

“And you got a call that she’d died later that day?” he asks.

“Yep,” she confirms. “I don’t even really remember it. Missy would tell the story over and over though, parade me around to her friends like a sideshow,” she sighs.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches her intently, feels the baby move and squirm under his palm.

“What about this…us?” he asks, tentatively. “Any gut feelings?”

She is stoic, unable or unwilling to meet his eyes. “I…it’s weird because I feel like I know him so well and I’ve never even seen his face,” she says eyebrows drawn together. “But I can’t picture him. I can’t even imagine what it will be like once he’s born.”

“Are you scared?” he asks.

She looks at him, eyes wide and wet with unshed tears. “Terrified.”


	4. Part 4

**2006, Big Ray’s Bar and Grill, Clifton, VA**

It’s a sports bar, nothing fancy. Their table has a stack of sugar packets under one foot to keep it balanced, it’s not really working. It smells like grease and beer and there is low music playing, Bruce Springsteen or Billy Joel or somesuch. The wide room is dim, the lighting composed mostly of neon beer signs and illuminated plastic sports teams insignias. **  
**

His knee is jumping furiously under the table and he tries to settle his mind. He can’t help but worry about Mikey, who only leaves his company to go to school. He’s forgotten how to do this, how to carry on an adult conversation, how to maintain eye contact and fill the awkward silences. But he nods smiles as she tells him about her job as a ceramics teacher at the high school, her weekends hawking pottery and homemade candles at the farmer’s market.

He’s seen her before, of course, at drop off and pick up, the school’s holiday program. He’d seen her, but had never really paid much attention, to her, or anyone really.

She’s young, in her late twenties or early thirties, with wavy blonde hair and cat eye glasses with plastic tortoise shell frames. She doesn’t wear makeup, as far as he can tell, but he’s never been very good at telling things like that. She’s usually in jeans and a t shirt, as she is this evening. He notices her neatly trimmed fingernails and strong hands, precise in their movements as she speaks, punctuating with fluttering fingers.

“I just want to apologize again, about what August said,” she sighs.  

He shrugs. “I knew Mikey and I would have to have more conversations about his mom. If he’d known more, he probably wouldn’t have been so upset. I’ve just been…I’ve been putting it off too long is all.”

She nods, looking for all the world like she could cry right there.

“If you…I mean if you ever want to talk about…I’m sorry, I don’t even know her name,” she says.

“Dana,” he says, unthinking. “Her name was Dana.”

“What was she like?” she asks.

“Smart, really smart,” he says, with just an inkling of a smile. “Very hard to impress.”

“How’d you win her over if she was so hard to impress?” she asks.

“Hypnotism,” he says with a chuckle.

“Ah, a good sense of humor goes a long way with the unflappable,” she says picking up her beer and taking a sip.

“She was definitely unflappable,” he concedes.

“I’m sure she’d be proud,” she says. “Mikey is such a sweet kid.”

“He’s a lot like her, I think,” he says. He ducks his head, averting his eyes when he feels the familiar sting in his sinuses.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” she says.

“No, it’s okay,” he says, drawing in a deep breath and shaking off the emotion. “I don’t get to talk about her much. I definitely don’t talk to Mikey about her enough.”

“My brother and his wife both passed away about 10 years ago,” she says. “Going to a grief counselor really helped. I could give you his name if you like,” she offers.

“Yeah, I’d really appreciate that,” he says.

She smiles and tucks into a burger the size of her head. He can’t help but smile himself.

**2001, Rural VA**

Michael is snoozing contentedly, his gummy mouth slightly open, a watery line of formula drawn from the corner of his mouth to his indeterminate jaw line. It’s more like a place where his cheek ends and his shoulder begins. Mulder regards him with a smile as he weighs the risk of putting him to bed or just letting the boy get his nap in his arms right there on the couch. The decision is made for him with a knock on the door that jolts the baby awake. He wails almost immediately and Mulder cusses under his breath as he heads for the door. **  
**

“This had better be good,” he grumbles as he opens it, adjusting the baby on his shoulder and soothing him with gentle pats on his back.

Melvin Frohike stands before him with his pork pie hat in hand, looking up through the smudged lenses of his glasses. Mulder’s heart races as he looks around suspiciously and ushers him in.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he hisses, closing the door behind him.

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important,” Frohike says, his tone sober and measured.

“Well?”

“You had better sit down,” he says.

“Don’t be dramatic,” he responds.

“It’s about Dana,” he says.  

His mind stutters a moment and he relents, slowly sitting down, shushing the baby softly.

“Is she alright?” he asks.

“No,” Frohike says with a sigh. “She’s dead.”

He knows what the individual words mean. But in conjunction, he can’t make sense of them.

“She can’t be,” he says simply.

Frohike’s eyes are wide and mournful, red rimmed from hours in front of a screen, or crying, perhaps.

“I saw, after they took her away. I saw where it happened.”

“Where  _what_ exactly happened?” Mulder gasps more than says.

“She’s gone, I saw. She’s gone,” he repeats. “She…she knew what to do so that it would be fast. She didn’t suffer,” Frohike shakes his head, reluctant to say too much.

“You’re wrong,” he says, standing up. The baby begins to wail. He begins to pace, moving from foot to foot in a frenetic sway. “They must’ve taken her, or, or, or…She would never…Frohike, she would  _never_  do that. You’ve got to help me, we have to find out what happened,” he stammers, nearly possessed. 

“I’ve got the coroner’s report,” he says trying to sound calm, his voice betraying him. “I have the pictures. Mulder, listen to me. Dana’s gone.”

Reality washes over him and he stops, everything. 

“Take him, please,” he whispers.

Frohike lifts the baby from Mulder’s grasp as his knees give out and he collapses back onto the couch like a marionette with cut strings.

He dissolves, grief wrapping over him like wildfire and he sobs. 


	5. Part 5

**2001, Georgetown, Washington, D.C.  
**

The apartment smells like stale cigarettes. Natural light streams in through the wooden blinds, but not another light burns. Her home has become a dark, quiet thing, an empty husk. **  
**

She tried, she really did. But there is a bitterness, a boiling wave of indignant rage that bubbles like a layer of hot magma just under her polished veneer. Careful what you wish for, you just may get it. Want Mulder? Sure, but only for a while. Want a baby? No problem, but you can’t keep him. Everything you ever wanted in the worst possible way. The smiles are forced, the pleasantries feigned and she just can’t do it anymore.

Time keeps…disappearing. She’ll go to bed on a Friday night and wake on a Sunday afternoon, unsure of what’s happened and what they’ve done to her this time. She can guess though.

As far as anyone knows, William was found lifeless in his crib at just a week old. SIDS, she’d told everyone, including her own mother. That’s a lie that can never be absolved. Mulder, overwrought with grief and guilt, fled. Everyone who needed to, believed it completely.

The death certificate was easy enough to forge, given her background. A tiny urn was interred at a nearby cemetery.  Anyone who came poking would only find ashes, a small handful of incinerated medical waste.

She never had to fake the haze of grief and postpartum hormones. Milk with no baby to feed, love with no-one to receive it. And Mulder, reaching out from some nameless distance, telling her that the boy sleeps well, doesn’t like the pacifier, seems to prefer classic rock in the car, can move things with his mind.

There is peace in knowing that her son is well loved and cared for. But there will come a day when her computer is hacked or her nondescript email address is traced and then this will have been all for naught. Whoever keeps stealing her away for days at a time will eventually put the pieces together, quit trying to make another William and just go get the real McCoy.

She has to cut their access, to her and to her son.

Mulder had turned to the Gunmen to disappear. She’s chosen to turn to Skinner. It’ll be like their own witness protection program. He’s secured all the documents and certifications she’ll need to vanish and start over. She’s done the hard part, drawing pints of her own blood over these last few months and storing them away in her fridge, right next to the milk and eggs.

He knocks quietly and she lets him in.

“Are you sure?” he asks, the hesitation heavy in his voice.

She nods simply and he follows her.

She stands in front of the bathroom mirror, blindly locating the scar on her neck with the pads of her fingers. She grits her teeth and presses her scalpel into the flesh. Skinner closes his eyes and turns his head. The chip doesn’t even make a sound when she drops it into the porcelain basin. She runs the water and it disappears down the drain. She doesn’t even bother to tamp the wound as she walks to her son’s room.

He helps her to the floor and squeezes the bags of blood onto the blond hardwood where each of her wrists lie. He dabs a scalpel in one of the pools and then places it in her hand.  

She stares with doll’s eyes as he snaps the “crime scene” photos.

* * *

Frohike has always watched over her, in his own little way. When Mulder came back from the dead and treated his girl like an afterthought, Frohike didn’t hesitate to step in and let him know what a colossal piece of shit he was.

When Mulder left with the baby, he helped her get everything together to fake little William’s tragic passing. Between her medical know how and his hacking skills, it was simple enough. They even managed a dubious recorded 911 call.

She thanked him, kissed his cheek and never spoke to him again. In the months after Mulder went underground, she wasted. He saw it with his own eyes. She got skinny, like she did with the cancer. She took up smoking. He saw, through the lens of camera, saw her dying in slow motion. When the call to her address comes over the scanner, he feels like throwing up.

He arrives in time to see a body bag rolled out of the Georgetown building, Walter Skinner follows the stretcher, hands shoved in his pockets. He catches sight of him across the street, standing on the curb and looking utterly heartbroken.

He crosses and meets him there.

“Is it true?” he asks, eyes wide.

“She resigned this morning and I went over to try and talk her out of it,” he says, drawing a deep breath. “She’d already…she was gone by the time I got here.”

“You’re saying she did this to  _herself_?” Frohike asks, eyes wide and pained.

Skinner’s eyes dart and his jaw tightens. He seems to be wrestling for control of his emotions. Frohike has never been so blind as to think he was the only one who carried a torch for her.

Skinner nods solemnly. “I’ll get you the pictures and the autopsy report. Make sure he knows what happened here.”

* * *

The coroner’s van rumbles down the street and its driver peers into the rear view mirror expectantly. The bag in the back begins to crinkle and rustle and a slender hand, caked with dried blood, parts the zipper and opens it.

“Got about an hour or so,” Doggett says, gripping the steering wheel with blanched knuckles. 

She does not turn around, but nods solemnly. There is a trail of blood down the back of her shirt and she reaches to gently prod the wound there. 

“There’s a bag back there with your clothes and…everything else,” he says. 

 “Thank you, John,” she says, her voice rougher than it used to be. “For everything.”

They ride in silence for a long time, until the lights of the city are a glow on the horizon behind them.

She’s changed out of her bloody clothes and tucked her hair into the baseball cap. A black turtle neck sweater covers the wound on her cervical spine. 

When they come to a stop, she climbs into the front seat next to him, but does not avert her gaze from the beaten up car sitting on the side of the road. She holds out her hand to offer him something. He cups his palm to receive her cross. 

“Make sure that gets to my mother, please,” she whispers. 

He nods, stares at her sharp profile. 

“Take care of yourself, Dana,” he says. 

She finally looks at him, offers a weak, tight lipped smile and nods. She leaves him there and climbs into the nondescript sedan waiting for her on the shoulder.

He waits until her tail lights disappear into the night and leaves Dana Scully in his past.


	6. Part 6

At first, at very the very first, she was just waiting...waiting for symptoms to emerge, for a trickle of crimson to tickle her lip. She didn’t count on living long enough to use any of the falsified credentials that had been compiled for her. Her lease in the the studio apartment in Dallas was month to month. The car wouldn’t last through the end of the year. She assumed she would not either.

 

But then she didn’t get sick, at all. Not so much as a head cold. 

 

There were moments when she contemplated reaching out the to Gunmen, finding a way to get back to Mulder and William. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. There was no way to know if her scheme had panned out, if she was truly dead in the eyes of those that would use her to get to her son. Or if they were waiting for her to slip up. 

 

So she did the only thing she knew how to do. She went to work. Her placement in Dallas had been no coincidence. There was a job there waiting for her, pathology at Mt. Hope hospital. 

 

Her PA, Kate, was pleasant enough. Smart, competent, a little long-winded for her tastes, but that had more to do with the fact that she had no desire to create any meaningful connections if she could help it. 

 

“That’s a proper Irish name,” Kate declared when she introduced herself as Sarah Sullivan.

 

“I suppose so,” she agreed. 

 

“Anyone ever call you Sully?” she asks with a smile. 

 

She hopes the horror doesn’t show on her face. “No,” she says softly. “Just Sarah.”

 

She manages to keep to herself, for the most part. She goes to work. She goes home. She goes to the gym four days a week. She goes to the gun range twice a month. 

 

Her first time there, a man with broad shoulders and a questionable facial hair configuration offered to lend her a hand. As if she needed help with her stance, her weapon or anything else for that matter. He watched in utter disbelief as she unloaded round after round in a perfect center of mass cluster. 

 

He placed a meaty palm on his chest and sighed. 

 

“I do believe I’m in love,” he announced.

 

“Sorry, Romeo,” she sighed as she secured her weapon. “I’m taken.”

 

He greeted her with an enthusiastic “Annie Oakley!” every time he saw her after that. It’s the only place she feels something of herself still thriving. Everything else is rote, automatic. Go to work, go home. Go to work, go home. Eat salads, run a mile, pretend like life has any meaning or purpose. 

 

“Sullivan?” a voice calls her from behind.

 

She removes her ear protection and slides the safety on her weapon before turning around. She recognizes him, of course, but can’t quite remember his name. Aaron, Alan, something like that. She doesn’t interact much with other departments, never attends the social events. But she’s spoken to him a few times, he’s in neurology, she thinks. 

 

“Dr. Hamilton,” she says with a forced smile. 

 

“Just Adam, please,” he says with a grin. His teeth are too white. And too straight, she notes. 

 

“This guy botherin’ you, Annie?” Travis- his name is Travis- asks as he moves to get between them, she’d only need to nod and Dr. Hamilton would be out on his ass. 

 

“No, Tavis, it’s fine,” she says, patting his arm.

 

Travis appraises Hamilton, juts his chin ever so slightly and then slowly moves away.

 

“I thought your name was Sarah,” Hamilton says in a not so subtle whisper. 

 

“It is,” she says, half-smiling. “He calls me Annie Oakley.”

 

Hamilton looks impressed and nods his approval. 

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your practice, Sullivan. I just wanted to say hello,” he says. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

 

When Dr. Hamilton makes his way down to her corner of the hospital a week later, she is instantly suspicious. She is suspicious of anyone trying to get close to her at all. 

 

“Hey there, Sullivan,” he greets, cordial enough. 

 

“Dr. Hamilton,” she says. “How can I help you?”

 

“I-uh...I was planning to go hit the range this weekend. I wondered if you might be going too?” he asks. 

“No.”

 

“Not this weekend?” he asks. “How come?”

 

“Can I ask you something?” she asks, taking off her glasses and setting them aside. “Why do you do that? Call me by just my last name?”

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

 

“I’m not saying it bothers me, I’d just like to know what precipitates it,” she clarifies, even though it does, in fact, bother her. 

 

He smiles, almost shyly, which is when she decides that his eyes are too blue as well. 

 

“It’s a measure of distance,” he says. “When you find someone absolutely captivating, but you’re not certain of your chances, or if it’s even appropriate to approach...you put up an extra layer.”

 

_ Who’d you piss off to get stuck with this detail, Scully? _

 

“I see,” she says, the memory sitting on her chest like the weight of a newborn, impossible to put down. 

 

“I uh...I’m not usually so…” he fumbles. “There’s something about you, Sarah,” he says very deliberately. “I’d really like to get to know you a little, if you’ll let me.”

 

She nods, and tries to convey very little, although she’s never had a very good poker face. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she says gently. “But I can’t.”


	7. Part 7

**Trigger warning for suicide**

**2011, Farr’s Corner, VA  
**

He’s working his way down the aisles of the grocery store, snatching this and that.

Mike, he likes to be called Mike now, loves lunchables, although he seems to be heading into a growth spurt, so he grabs a few more than usual.

Scully would’ve shook her head and tsked at all the salt in that deli meat. Someone, one of the grief counselors or therapists, told him that there would be a day that the memory of her would bring a smile to his lips rather than a tear to his eye. All these years later, he finds that neither are true. He thinks of her and feels numb, angry sometimes. He doesn’t cry anymore, doesn’t have any tears left.

Mike once asked if he could have the picture, or, if they could at least put it in a frame and display it. He lies and tells the boy that it was lost. He hasn’t looked at it in a long time. Because when he does, he flashes on the coroner’s pictures of her slashed wrists and blood pooled on her blonde hardwood floors. He sees her steely eyes staring into nothing. He can’t imagine what was going through her mind when she did what she did. He doesn’t want to imagine. He doesn’t want to think about her at all any more. But there are still moments like this, when she comes to him unbidden.

His cell phone trills in his pocket and he is quick to answer since the number on the screen is Lucy’s.

“Hey Luce,” he says, pushing Scully out of his mind. “What’s up?”

“I’m at the school, something’s happened with Mike,” she says. “I’m not exactly sure. He passed out, they think he’s had a seizure.”

He abandons the cart and heads for the front door.

The doctors can’t tell him much. It’s a small facility with limited resources. He needs a neurologist to review the case. There is talk of transporting him to GW in Washington.

He has trouble processing anything they’re saying as he looks at the face of his unconscious son. He sits at his bedside for hours, watches him sleep, his eyes moving under translucent lids.

Lucy brings him coffee and strokes his hair.

“He’s a tough kid, Steve. He’ll be alright,” she assures him.

Scully would’ve known what to do, what tests to run. She would’ve known what to ask the doctors. If she hadn’t fucking sent him away and then slit her goddamn wrists…the bitter thoughts evaporate when Mike begins to stir.

He wakes, slowly, as the sun is setting.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, keeping his voice low and even.

“Where’d she go?” Mike asks.

“Who?” he asks.

“The lady with the red hair,” he says, looking utterly bewildered. “She was keeping me safe, but…”

“But what?”

“She didn’t know my name. She kept calling me the wrong name.”

“What’re you talking about Mike? What lady? What was she calling you?”

“William,” he said. “She said ‘it’s okay, William. I’ll keep you safe.’”

He cannot forms words, can barely process what the boy is telling him.

“Who is she, dad?” he asks.

He blinks, unable to respond and shakes his head ever so slightly.

“I’m gonna go get your doctor.”


	8. Part 8

**2011, Washington DC  
**

Arrangements are made to move Michael to GW for a pediatric neurology consult. Initial tests show nothing, no tumors, no brain bleeds, nothing. Mike doesn’t say anything more about the woman he saw. **  
**

She’d told him, a few weeks before their son was born, that she’d had a vision of him before his body was found. The same thing happened before she knew of her father’s passing. And of course, there were the phone calls around the time that Emily was discovered. He’d always sensed that Scully was more in tune with the other side than she would ever admit.

Perhaps Mike inherited more than her fine features. Perhaps she is reaching out to him and he is hearing her. But why now? And to what end?

He is puzzling over all of this when the neurologist comes to speak to him.

“I’m seeing some extremely unusual brain activity here, but I’m at a loss as to how to explain it,” he says.

“Well, is it degenerative?” he asks. “Is it hurting him?”

“I just can’t say,” he says. “I’d like to send his file over to a colleague of mine. He deals specifically in pediatric brainwave activity.”

“That sounds like a made up thing,” Mulder says.

“I understand your frustration. If I could explain what I’m seeing on this EEG, I would. But I can’t.”

“And you think this colleague of yours can?”

“Possibly.”

“Alright, then where do we need to go?”

“You’ll need to talk with Dr. Adam Hamilton,” he says. “He’s at Mt. Hope hospital in Dallas.”

It is a month before they can make their way to Texas. Mike is admitted and released from their local hospital twice more with apparent seizure activity. He is scared and confused, babbling about spaceships and sick people. About the woman with red hair who calls him William.

Lucy and Augie make the trip to Dallas with them. She holds his hand and brings him fresh coffee when his goes cold. Augie and Mike play video games in Mike’s hospital room while they await his MRI and the consultation with Dr. Hamilton. Mike’s got on a spiffy cap of gauze to cover the EEG leads all over his head. The attached wires spring out of the top. Augie told him he should keep the look permanently, it could be his trademark. Mike found that to be uproariously funny.

He talks Lucy into taking Augie and heading back to the hotel for dinner and dip in the pool while he and Mike await their conversation with Dr. Hamilton, who seems to be running behind, very behind. He bids them farewell at the main entrance and heads back to the bank of elevators that will take him back up to the neuro wing.

Heading down the hall, he catches a glimpse of the infamous Dr. Hamilton. He is moving along side a hospital bed, which is being pushed down the hall and around the corner. It is only when the bed banks right that his breath is gone, pushed from his chest like a shove to the sternum. The red hair of the woman in the bed catches the overhead light like a flash of foxfire. Her face is obscured, but he can see, even from this distance that she is petite, fine boned, so much like Scully that it hurts. And then she’s gone.

He returns to Mike’s room to find him snoozing peacefully, the game controller still in his hand. He sits down next to the bed and realizes how badly he is shaking when he attempts to pick up his coffee cup.

He looks up at the ceiling and breathes deeply through his nose. “What’re you doing, Scully?” he whispers. “What’re you doing to us?”

“Mr. Smith?” a voice calls.

“Dr. Hamilton, I presume?” he responds, shifting in his chair but making no effort to get up.

“I want to apologize for the delay, there was an emergency I needed to tend to. My-” he stops, starts again. “A colleague needed me.”

He nods, trying to tamp down his aggravation.

“I’ve reviewed Michael’s EEG and his MRI scans. What’s going on in his brain is most unusual but,” he trails a moment.

“But?”

“I’ve seen it before,” he says. “I’ve seen it today.”

Mulder is baffled and it must show.

“Another patient of mine is showing almost identical EEG readings. I can’t say too much because of privacy regulations, but with your permission, I’d like to run some additional tests and compare them.”

“That patient is here now?” he asks. “Are they…” he doesn’t even know what to ask.

“As  I said, privacy laws prevent me from saying too much, but she’s been symptomatic for over a month now.”

“Is it a child? Someone Michael’s age?” he asks.

Hamilton looks about and chews his lip a moment. “She’s in her late forties and in otherwise excellent health.”

“Will you ask her if she’ll talk with me?” he asks.

“I can’t…and even if I could, she’s unconscious right now.”

He nods. He isn’t even really sure what talking with this woman will accomplish, but he feels like there’s something there he’s meant to uncover.

“I’ll have the nurse come in and draw labs,” Hamilton says. “And I’ll be back in the morning to talk with Michael.”

He nods and watches him leave, frustrated that they’ve come all this way and still really don’t know anything.

He peers at Michael, still sound asleep and watches Hamilton move down the hall and around the corner. He feels a jolt, a long dormant sensation of his investigator’s brain booting up. He looks at Michael once more, clearly down for the count, and begins walking down the hall.

He rounds the corner and hangs back a moment as he watches Hamilton exit a room and walk away. He waits until the doctor disappears behind a set of double doors into a restricted area and then moves as nonchalantly as possible to the room that he just exited.

Through the narrow pane of glass, he can only see the end of a bed and the legs and feet of the petite person atop it. His heart is thumping so hard, he can feel it in his molars. There is something hopeful there that thrums with his pulse. 

_What if, what if, what if…_

What if this mystery woman has the key to help his son?

What if she’s the one the boy has been dreaming about?

What if it’s Scully?

He swallows that last one like bile. He attended her funeral. He can almost taste the blood in his mouth from Maggie Scully’s indignant slap across his face. He’s got this all wrong, he thinks, and nearly turns to leave.

But.

He doesn’t.

He can’t leave without at least seeing. He steps forward and looks at the face of the woman on the bed. She is different and yet completely the same. Her hair is longer and lighter than he’s ever seen it. She’s thin, too thin, he decides, worry lines carved around her mouth and eyes, her brow contorted in clear discomfort. He can’t breathe.

Because it’s her.

It’s Scully.


	9. Part 9

He stumbles  backwards from the bed, feeling lightheaded and woozy. The floor shifts  under him like a tectonic plate. **  
**

She is still and silent, the rise and fall of her chest barely detectable.

She doesn’t look sick. But she doesn’t look well either.

He steps forward, slowly, trying to steady his breathing and calm his galloping heart.

Drawing closer he looks at her more objectively. What if it’s not her at all? He’s seen clones, shapeshifters, all manner of lookalikes over the years. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that someone would use Scully, or someone who looked like Scully, against him. He takes another tentative step forward and reaches toward her. He slips his fingers between the back of her neck and the pillow, searching for the telltale scar against her cervical spine.

He used to trace it like braille, years ago, like a meditation on gratitude. It feels different, more pronounced, but it’s there, smooth under the whorls of his fingertips.

“Scully?” he whispers, hoping that her name is some secret incantation that will rouse her.

But she does not stir.

“Do you know Sarah?” a voice asks.

He looks up and sees a woman with dark curly hair. She’s in civilian clothes, but has a hospital id card hanging from her belt loop.

She’s Sarah here, not Scully, he realizes.

“Y-yes, I do,” he says, drawing his hand away from her. “But we haven’t seen one another in a long time.”

“Are you family?” she asks.

“In a manner of speaking,” he says.

“She’s never mentioned any family,” she says, eyes narrowing.

“She’s pretty private,” he reasons.

“I suppose that’s true. She’s a bit of a mystery, really,” she concedes. “I’ve known her almost ten years and I don’t think I could tell you much about her at all.”

He looks down at Scully again and bites his lip. Ten years. He didn’t even get that long with her.

“Has she been conscious at all?” he asks.

“She’s been missing work off and on lately, which is unusual for her. She passed out after an autopsy yesterday. That dick Hamilton won’t tell me anything though,” she mutters.

“You work with her?” he asks.

“I’m Katie, I’m one of the PAs in Pathology here,” she says.

He nods and looks back down at Scully, taking her hand. Time fractures for a split second and she is unconscious after her abduction, asleep after a cancer treatment, healing from a gut shot, holding his hand while the nurses look over their newborn son.

“She asked for someone, when it happened,” she adds.

He looks up at her. He knows exactly who she would have asked for.

Alarm bells start going off, not just in his head. Real ones, monitors beeping and blaring because her heart rate is climbing and her respiration is erratic.

She opens her eyes, wide and terrified. There is instant realization, he can see it. She knows exactly who he is.

“Sarah,” he says calmly. “It’s me, Steve.”

“I’ll go get Adam,” Katie says.

She watches her go and looks back at him.

“Mulder,” it comes out like a breath.

She reaches for him, her face crumpling and a gasp escaping as he wraps his arms around her.

“We don’t have much time,” he says. “But I’ll come back. Okay?”

“Is he here?” she asks.

He pulls back and nods.

She begins to sob, covering her face with her hands.

“You have to get him out of here. It’s not safe,” she says.

“I’ll come back, okay? I promise,” he says, pulling away from her.

“No, wait,” she says, reaching for him. He pauses, steps towards her again. She cups his jaw with  both hands and looks at him with something like wonder, wonder tinged with fear.

“It really is you…isn’t it?” she asks.

He leans in, slants his mouth against hers. They remember one another on an atomic level. A decade since he last kissed her and it’s as if their last kiss never really stopped. It is elemental, the way they pass energy back and forth. He pulls back, breathes the humid air between them.

“I’ll be back,” he whispers.

She closes her eyes until she hears the door close.

She opens them again and tries to orient herself. She’s not even very sure what’s happening or where she is at first. But it’s easy enough to surmise. She’s been in and out of the nuero wing for weeks. And for the most part, she’s been able to keep it from Katie. But Adam has barely given her an inch to breathe.

“Sarah?” he says as he comes in.

She unconsciously smooths her hair down and sits up a little.

“What happened?” she asks.

“You had a seizure yesterday evening,” he says as he sits on the edge of her bed.

She nods, chews the inside of her lip.

“What does the imaging show?” she asks.

“No change,” he says, his voice a little sad.

She nods again.

He is looking her over as he talks, running her through the usual aptitude tests, following his finger with her eyes, allowing him to check her pupils with a pen light.

“Will you consider treatment, please? Danvers said he’d be happy to review your case,” he asks.

“I guess I don’t have many options, do I?” she says, her breath coming out in a slow rattle.

“You always have options, Sarah,” he says. The way he looks at her makes her feel guilty.

She nods again. “Okay,” she sighs. “Give him my file.”

* * *

He paces the hallway outside Mike’s room for the better part of an hour. His nerves rattle with adrenaline. How can it be? She’s been here the whole time, living under an assumed identity.

He wants to give her the benefit of the doubt, that she’s here against her will, that someone forced her hand.

But the more he thinks about it, the more questions he has. If she had to disappear, why not have the Gunmen help? Or at least get word to him that she was alive?

But she didn’t do that. She let him and everyone she loved believe that she’d killed herself. He’s spent the last ten years mourning her, even hating her a little.

Mike’s nurse approaches and eyes him with concern.

“Everything okay, Mr. Smith?” she asks.

“Y-yeah. Yes, I’m fine,” he says.

“Is he sleeping?” she asks. “I just need to do a draw for labs real quick.”

“Um, yeah, he’s still sleeping I think,” he stammers.

“Okay, I’ll try not to wake him,” she says with a smile. “Do you need anything? I can pull out the sleeper sofa for you.”

“Oh no, that’s okay. I don’t think I’m going to be sleeping much.”

She nods and heads into the room, closing the door behind her. He waits a moment and heads back down the hall toward Scully’s room.

When he enters, she is staring out the window, chewing on her thumbnail in deep contemplation. He clears his throat to get her attention.

She looks at him and straightens herself up, one hand unconsciously sweeping over the crown of her head.

“Hi,” she says, a ghost of a smile appearing for a moment.

“You’ve been here the whole time?” he asks, jaw tight.

“I…yes. I have,” she says.

“And you know…I mean you’ve been here knowing that I thought you’d…” he trails off, unable to say the rest.

She’s is chewing on the inside of her cheek, tears brimming. She nods and bites back a sniffle.

“You let me think you were dead, all this time,” he says, perhaps a little venom seeping through.

She feels it, the anger, the hurt. She sniffles a little and closes her eyes.

“I have been,” she whispers. “All these years, I have been.”

A sob escapes, a quick cough and she wipes the tears away, unable to look at him any more.

“I didn’t want to,” she whispers. “But I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” he hisses.

She nods at that, closes her eyes.

“They never believed he was dead,” she whispers. “And when they realized that I didn’t know where he was…they tried…they thought they could…” her chin quivers as she fights her memories.

“Did they take you?” he asks, his posture softening.

She nods, swipes the tears from her cheeks. “I know that our email accounts were encrypted. But I lost days on end. I don’t know what they did or what they could make me do. I couldn’t risk that they would track you somehow.”

“But they can track you with the chip,” he remarks.

She furrows her brow and frowns at that. “I took it out. The night I left, I took it out,” she whispers.

He looks like he can’t breathe. His eyes wide and mouth agape.

“We could’ve…Jesus Christ Scully, we could’ve been together,” he chokes out.

She shakes her head emphatically. “No, we couldn’t. We can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because they never stopped,” she whispers. “I thought I could get away. But I couldn’t. You have to get him out of here, before they figure out what’s going on.”

“He’s sick, Scully,” he says.

“Oh God,” she gasps, covering her face.

“He’s been having seizures, unusual brain activity,” he says. “No one knows what’s wrong with him and they said that the only person would could help was Dr. Hamilton.”

Her eyes widen and there is something like terror, or betrayal there.

“Adam,” she whispers. “He’s…you get our son and get him out of here. Now,” she says, her voice trembling.

“This guy Hamilton, you think he’s with them?” he asks.

“I don’t… I don’t know,” she says, clearly starting to panic.

“Shhhh,” he says, moving close to her. “Breathe. Scully,” he says as he pulls her to his chest.

She melts into him, trembling. Muscle memory kicks in and he rests his chin on the crown of her head, wraps his arms across her back.

“Let’s go then. If he’s the problem, then we can all go. I can hide us all,” he tells her.

She sobs, a loud hiccuping cry. “I can’t, Mulder,” she coughs. “It’s not just seizures.”

He pulls back and searches her face. She is exactly the same and yet completely different. She looks like she has been hollowed out, paper thin and so fragile.

“It’s a tumor,” she whispers, her face crumpling and the tears coming anew.


	10. Part 10

Dallas, TX 2008 **  
**

“Are you ever going to tell me the story about this?”

This.

 _This_  is the scar on her belly, the puckered wound left behind after a bullet passed through her gut and blew a two inch hole in her back, shredding her renal artery. Not many people get a scar like hers and live to tell the tale.

He traces a fingertip over it and looks at her in a way that makes her genuinely want to smack him. It is naked adoration, vulnerability… _weakness_.

“It’s not nearly as interesting as you’re thinking, I’m sure,” she says, pulling the sheet up to cover herself, putting a barrier between them.

“Sarah, one of these days, I’m going to figure you out,” he says as he gets up and slips into his boxers.

She remains quiet and watches him move around the room, grabbing a robe from a hook by the door and shrugging into it.

“You hungry?” he asks. “I can order something,” he says as he sits back down on the bed.

“No, I’m going to get going,” she says as she feels around under the bedding for her underwear.

“Or you could stay,” he offers.

“But you know I’m not going to,” she reminds him.

He slumps his shoulders and sighs. “You can’t blame me for trying,” he says, with just a little too much self pity.

She clasps her bra and stands up.

“I certainly can,” she says, her voice even and stern. “I told you from the start that I wasn’t interested in a relationship. It’s something that I’ve had to reiterate more than I care to lately.”

She can feel his eyes on her as she pulls her scrubs back on. She toes into her tennis shoes without bothering to tie them.

“I didn’t….” he starts. “I’m sorry, you’re right.”

“Adam, if you’re looking for something more, you aren’t going to find it with me,” she says simply. “There are no hard feelings if you need to move on,” she says.

“I guess I just keep hoping that you’ll…”he trails off.

“Change my mind?” she asks, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.

“Maybe,” he offers.

“Then maybe we’d better stop now, before someone gets hurt,” she says.

“Is that something you care about?” he asks, it is without malice.

“Of course it is,” she says, crossing her arms. “But I have to prioritize myself and I won’t be made to feel ashamed of that.”

His face softens, looking at her with utter sorrow, as if her pain has given him radiation sickness.

“What happened to you, Sarah?” he asks, his voice soft and tentative.

She looks away, looping her hair into a low ponytail and gathering her jacket. The silence so long and heavy that it pushes the air out of her lungs.

“Everything,” she whispers.

She leaves and never returns.


	11. Part 11

**Dallas, TX 2011**

He doesn’t even think as he moves down the hall to his son’s room. He dials as he pushes the door open and begins bagging up the boy’s belongings. **  
**

“Steve?” Lucy asks over the line, her voice sleepy.

“Hey Luce, I need you to pack everything up and come back to the hospital,” he says.

“What’s going on? Is Mike okay?” she asks.

“He’s okay,” he says. “I just need your help.”

“Pack everything? Your room too?” she asks.

“Yeah, everything. I’ll explain when you get here,” he says. “Call me when you get to the parking garage, don’t come up to the room. Stay in the car.”

She chuckles nervously. “Are you breaking out of there or something?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he says. “Call me when you get here.”

“Steve, you’re freaking me out,” she says.

“You and me both, Luce. Just trust me on this, please,” he says.

A long pause, a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll call you when I get there.”

He stuffs his phone in his pocket and reaches out to rouse Mike, who is still fast asleep.

“Hey buddy,” he whispers, jostling the boy’s shoulder.

“Hmmm, dad? What’s going on?” he asks.

“We’re gonna go home,” he says as he begins working the gauze and electrodes off of the boys head.

Mike quirks a look that is 100% Scully, eyebrow and all. He forgets to breathe a moment.

“Mike, I know it’s weird. I know it’s the middle of the night. But we gotta go. I need you to listen to me and do exactly as I say, okay?” he says, clasping his knobby little shoulders.

Mike nods solemnly and starts to extricate himself from the bed. He silently passes him his clothes.

He pokes his head into the hallway and finds it empty, waves for Mike to follow him. This moment is so utterly familiar, the rush of clandestine affairs, going where one shouldn’t, making a hasty getaway. And Scully, breathing, alive, waiting for him down the hall. Mike starts to head for the elevator, but Mulder steers him towards her room.

He realizes, when they reach her door, that he has to prepare him, help him understand what he’s about to see.

“Mike,” he whispers. “The woman in your dreams, the one who protects you,” he starts.

“Yeah?” Mike whispers back.

“She’s real,” he says. “And she’s here,” he says, pointing at the door.

Mike looks momentarily offended. “Of course she’s real,” he says.

Mulder nods, smiles and slowly pushes the door open, ushering Mike in ahead of him.

She’s curled on her side, her back to the door.

“Scully?” he calls in a sotto voice.

“You know how long it’s been since anyone called me that?” she asks as she sits up.

“About 10 years?” Mike pipes up.

Realization hits her and she is struck breathless.

She’s looking at a face she never thought she would see again. She tastes the ocean on her lip and wonders if she’s forever frozen in time now for looking back, a pillar of salt.

“This is Michael,” Mulder says gently. “Mike, this is-”

“Sarah,” she  blurts. “I’m Sarah.”

Mulder looks at her, a silent conversation taking place between them. He nods and looks back to Mike.

“Sarah’s gonna come with us,” he says.

She looks back at Mulder, horrified.

“You’re coming with us,” he says again, more firmly.

She sniffles, wipes a tear away from her cheek and gets out of the bed. Mulder guides Mike to turn his back as she slips into her scrubs and tennis shoes. Her movements are shaky, whether from her jangling nerves or other causes, she’s unsure. Her body has been in revolt for months now.

“Okay,” she whispers.

Mike turns around and extends a hand to her. She is tentative, but reaches out and takes it.

Mulder’s phone trills in his pocket and he grabs it quickly and answers.

“Hey Lucy, are you here?”

“Yes, Steve. I’m here,” she says, her voice tight.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

The line goes dead and the alarms start blaring in his head.

“C’mon,” he says, ushering them out the door. “We gotta go now.”

“Are Lucy and Auggie okay?” Mike asks.

“I don’t know,” Mulder responds as he pushes the door open.

He peers into the hallway and sees Hamilton approaching, looking at a chart as he walks.

“Shit,” he hisses as he shuts the door again.

“What?” Scully asks.

“Hamilton’s out there,” he says.

She nods and begins to dig through the bag slung over her shoulder. She produces a handgun and holds with both hands, prepared to shift into a shooting stance if the moment calls for it.

Mike stares at the weapon, wide eyed, as if he’s seeing a movie come to life.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “I’m going to protect you.”

He nods and leans into her.

“I know,” he says. “I know you will.”

She slows her breathing, the same way she does at the range, the same way she learned at Quantico as a young recruit. In through the nose, out through the mouth, even, slow breaths. Hamilton’s shoes squeak closer and closer to the door and then they stop. She sucks in a sharp breath and slides the safety on her weapon.

For long moments, there is nothing but the sound of the three of them breathing quietly together. Mulder pressed up against the door, Mike behind him and Scully, one protective hand across the boys chest and the other ready to pull the trigger.

There is a quiet, tap-tap-tap, Hamilton clicking his pen, or thumping it against the chart. His shoes start squeaking again and the sounds recedes down the hall, away from her door.

The three of them deflate almost simultaneously, sagging into one another with heaving breaths and nervous smiles.

Mulder pushes the door open, slowly, slowly, slowly and tips his head out to get a look.

“It’s clear,” he whispers. “Let’s go.”

They filter into the hallway in a little train, their son between them, hanging onto Scully’s hand and the back of Mulder’s jacket.

“This way,” Scully directs, moving them to a set of double doors. She produces a hospital badge and swipes it quickly through a card terminal.

The doors swing open and she waves them to follow her.

“There’s back way to the garage,” she says as they move through the labyrinth of halls. She tucks her gun out of sight and squeezes Mike’s hand tighter.

The decend four floors of stairs together, the sounds of their shoes and heavy breathing echoing off the concrete walls.

They reach the garage level and Scully pulls her weapon again, pushing Mike behind her. Mulder trudges ahead of them and get to the door and peers through the small window there.

Through it, he can see Lucy with an arm across her neck and a gun to her temple.

“Come on out!” a familiar voice calls.

Scully’s face crumples almost immediately.

“Katie?” she breathes.


	12. Part 12

**Dallas, TX 2011**

**  
**Mulder looks through the garage door window and sees a tuft of curly dark hair belonging to the same woman who confronted him in Scully’s room earlier. **  
**

“You stay here,” he says as he takes Scully’s gun.

Scully nods and wraps her arms around Mike.

He pushes the door open and enters the murky garage. Lucy’s face is tense and tear streaked.

“Luce, it’s gonna be okay,” he says, holding out a hand.

“Why would you tell her something like that?” Katie says with a smirk. “You oughtta know how many times that’s turned out to be a lie,” she says to the side of Lucy’s head.

“Don’t listen to her, Lucy. It’s gonna be alright,” he says. “What do you want?” he asks.

“I think you already know,” she says, still smiling.

“You can’t have her,” he says.

“God, I coulda taken her out anytime,” she says, rolling her eyes.  

“You can’t have him either,” he says, barely containing his rage.

“I just wanna borrow him,” she says. “Just to pick his little brain is all.”

“I’ll bet,” he nearly growls. “Not gonna happen.”

“I can see why you’d be hesitant. You two did a good job hiding him all this time. But then you didn’t know what I know.”

“What do you know?” he asks between clenched teeth.

“That they’re connected, psychically bonded. There’s a gene marker for it, did you know that?” she says. “You’re just a carrier, but those two, they’re special,” she adds.

“You. Can’t. Have. Him,” he spits each word.

On the other side of the door, Scully pulls the boy closer to her, squeezes hard.

“It’s okay. No one is going to hurt you,” she whispers into his hair.

He wraps his arms around her and squeezes back. “No one’s gonna hurt you either,” he says.

“Why don’t you come on out here,  _Dana_?” Katie calls. “It’d sure be a shame if you had another seizure,” she warns.

Scully ignores the threat and begins to rock the boy. “It’s okay,” she says again. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Mike pulls back a moment, places his hands on her cheeks and studies her deeply.

She blinks and just for a moment, can see the soft, sleepy face of her baby.

“I always knew you were alive,” he says, just above a whisper.

“I never wanted to leave you,” she nearly sobs.

He nods and tucks himself back into her embrace. She gasps softly, holding the tears at bay.

In the garage, Lucy struggles to stay upright as Katie tightens her grip. Her shoes slip and skid against the slick floor.

“Let her go, she has nothing to do with this,” Mulder warns.

Katie chuckles again and holds up a phone positioned in her left hand.

“One way or another, I’m gonna get what I want,” she says.

She swipes her thumb across the screen, which comes to life with a strobing white light. On the other side of the door, he can hear Scully cry out.

“A prolonged seizure will kill her,” Katie says.

“The tumor…”

“Isn’t a tumor,” she says. “It’s an implant. And it has one job.”

“Dad!” Mike yells. “Dad, help her!”

“Yeah,  _Dad_ ,” she mocks. “You just got her back. It’d be a real shame to have her die all over again.”

He slowly backs up and looks through the window. Scully is on her back, jolting and jerking as if she’s been electrocuted. Mike is on his knees next to her, watching in horror as she twitches.

“That bond of theirs means it won’t be long before he starts seizing too,” Katie warns.

That’s all it takes.

He levels the weapon and squeezes the trigger. One shot. The sound makes his ears ring and the echo in the cavernous parking garage is all he can make out at first.

Like surfacing from underwater, things become clear again. Lucy is screaming, bawling for all she’s worth. Auggie is banging on the car window so hard that he could probably shatter it.

Katie is on the ground, an ever expanding pool of blood spreading from the back of her ruined skull. The screen of her phone flickers and goes black.

**Two Days Later:**

She opens her eyes, slowly, and realizes that she is back in her hospital bed. There is a moment of sheer panic. She can hear the monitors blaring as she sits up and tries to orient herself.

“Whoa, Sarah, slow down,” a voice says.

She looks up and sees the deeply concerned face of Adam Hamilton.

“Wha-” she breathes. “What happened?”

“It’s okay,” he says. “You’re okay now. We got it.”

“Got what?” she gasps.

He holds up a specimen jar and inside, a piece metal, about the size of a quarter and the shape of a river stone, smooth and rounded.

“It was right up against your vagus nerve,” he says as he sits up on the edge of the bed. “Whatever Katie was doing to you, stops now.”

She realizes that her head is wrapped in gauze, prodding gently at the bulk of it behind her ear.

“Where’s…what about…” she doesn’t even know what to ask.

“They’re getting some rest at the hotel…your son and his father,” he says tentatively.

“They’re okay?” she asks.

“Just fine,” he says. “Mike’s been on watch for hours. Poor kid was half asleep in that chair last night.”

“He’s alright? No seizure activity?” she asks.

“We gave him another scan and EEG to be sure, but he’s perfectly fine. Totally normal results,” he assures her.

A tear escapes and she nods.

“You uh…you’re going to leave, aren’t you?” he asks.

“I- I don’t know,” she sighs.

“I didn’t get it before, why you kept your heart so guarded,” he says. “I get it now.”

She nods. “I never knew who I could trust.”

“That’s a terrible way to live,” he says. “You deserve some peace.”

She nods and settles back into the bed a bit.

“How did you know he’s my son?” she asks.

“I knew it the second I saw him,” he says with a chuckle. “He even does that thing with his eyebrow. I dropped a couple of hints to his dad and hoped things would work themselves out.”

“Thank you, Adam,” she sighs. “You’ve always been better to me than I’ve been to you.”

He nods and stands up. “You’ll be discharged in a couple days,” he says. “And if I don’t see you again, I’ll be sad, but I’ll understand. It was a pleasure, Sarah.”

“Dana,” she corrects. “My name is Dana.”

He nods, looking suddenly quite touched. “Dana, nice to finally meet you.”

She sniffles a little as he goes. 

It’s been so long since she’d been called by her name that she felt like Dana Scully might have really and truly died.

The door opens again and it is Mulder, just Mulder, with a skittish smile on his face.

“Hey,” he says, his voice quiet, maybe a little awestruck.

“Hi,” she responds, feeling her stomach flip. “Where’s Wi-Mike?” she corrects.

“Making the most of his time in the pool with Auggie and Lucy,” he says as he perches on the edge of her bed.

“Lucy,” she says cautiously. “She’s your…”

“Friend,” he finishes. “Good friend.”

“You two aren’t um…”

“Uh no…I’m not her type,” he says, laughing somewhat nervously. “ _You’re_  more her type,” he adds.

“Oh,” she responds, catching his meaning. “And Auggie is her son?”

“Nephew, she took custody of her niece and nephew when her brother and sister in law died. Auggie and June.”

“August and June?” she asks, quirking a little smile.

He nods in affirmation. “Lucy talked me into going to grief counseling after you…after she saw that I was struggling with…” The air shifts, her breath tightens. “I went to your funeral, Scully.”

“And I went to yours,” she sighs. “I know that doesn’t make us even. Anywhere near even.”

“I don’t want to get even, Scully. I just want  _you_. I want you to come home and get to know your son.”

“Don’t you think I would if I could?” she says, her voice coming out in a soft tremble. “Someone paid her to do that. To watch me, to hurt me. Just because Katie is gone doesn’t mean that it’s over.”

“It is,” he says, taking her hand.

She shakes her head and a sob escapes.

“I missed,” he says.

“Missed what?” she asks.

“I took a shot at Katie and missed. Mike did it. Mike stopped her,” he says, very solemnly.

Her jaw bobs and she cannot produce a sound.

“Nothing is going to happen to him. Nothing is going to happen to any of us,” he says, squeezing her hands.


	13. Epilogue

**Epilogue:**

Woodstock, VA 2013

Coming back from the dead is a process, a long one. It took more than a year to bring the entire Mulder-Scully clan back certifiable legal status.

They left Farr’s Corner, the little house where they were the Smiths and bought a new place in Woodstock. A couple of acres and couple more bedrooms. A fresh start.

Mike still goes by Mike. It’s all he’s ever known. Scully was tearful, however, upon discovering that his middle name was William.

Aside from the mountains of paperwork and legal fees, by far, the hardest part was reaching out to her mother, trying to explain that not only was her daughter alive this whole time, but so was her grandson. They started with phone conversations, quiet, tearful talks, apologies uttered in a litany of sniffles and sobs.

They’ve worked their way up to this moment with painstaking care and preparation. But she can still feel her heart thumping in her spine.

She fusses with her hair in the mirror that hangs in the foyer, simply because she has nothing else to fuss with. The house is immaculate, the evening’s meal is cooking in the oven, there’s nothing else to do but wait.

“You okay?” he asks as he wraps his arms around her from behind. She makes eye contact in the mirror and sighs.

He gives her a little squeeze and hunches to tuck his chin against her shoulder.

“Nervous?” he asks.

She nods, swipes a tear from her eye. She opens her mouth to answer, but is interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. He drops a kiss on her cheek and whispers against her skin.

“Breathe,” he says as he pulls away to answer the door.

Her attention is pulled to the sound of Mike thumping down the stairs at mach speed. He looks less and less like a little boy these days. He’s taller than her now and outweighs her too. He’s built like Mulder, tall, lean. They even move the same way. She found herself in perpetual and utter awe discovering all the little things about her son. He stands at the bottom of stairs, bouncing on his heels a little. He’s never had any family beyond his father, this is a whole new world for him.

Maggie Scully is already crying as Mulder hugs her and ushers her inside. Mother and daughter are drawn together like a pair of magnets, wrapping around one another in a fierce embrace.

“Mike,” Mulder beckons, waving his son to come off the stairs.

“Mom,” Scully says, pulling away with a sob. “This is your grandson.”

Maggie wipes her eyes and offers him a wide smile. “Hello Michael,” she says, opening her arms.

“Hi,” Mike answers tentatively before giving her a cautious hug.

“You look like your uncle Charles, do you know that?” she asks with a teary smile.

“Yeah, Mom told me,” he says, a little shy.

They give Maggie the grand tour before settling in at the dining room table. Mother and daughter sit close together throughout, alternating between holding hands and leaning into one another.

They head to the living room for dessert and quiet discussion of the holidays ahead, how to ease Mike into the chaos of a big family gathering.

“Oh I almost forgot! I need to give you something,” Maggie says suddenly.

Scully quirks an eyebrow and pulls back as Maggie stands up and digs into her pocket. She holds her clasped hand out to her daughter and sits back down. Scully holds out her hand to receive a puddle of gold in her palm. She gasps when she realizes what she’s holding.

“Your friend John gave that to me,” she says softly. “I thought you might want it back.”

She can barely stop the tears from coming as she nods. Mulder gets up and takes the necklace from her, helps her secure it at the back of her neck, tracing the scar there as he does.

“I’m never taking it off again,” she says.

“When are we telling Grandma about the baby?” Mike interjects.

“Baby?” Maggie asks, eyes wide.

“I guess now,” Scully says with a shocked chuckle. “We didn’t even tell  _you_  about the baby yet, Mike.”

He shrugs and looks down at his tablet. “I’ve known forever.”

She looks back at Mulder, her eyes asking if he was the one to spill the beans. Mulder’s mouth sits in a tight smile as he shakes his head.

“I told you there’s no use trying to keep anything from him,” he says.

“I guess not,” Scully says with a sigh as she turns to her mother. “I’m sorry mom, I didn’t want to spring another surprise on you already.”

Maggie laughs and hugs her close. “Don’t you dare apologize, Dana. Not anymore.”


End file.
